


Miami Ice

by Lurlur, PepperVL, Worts (wortlby2), WyvernQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1980s, Alligators & Crocodiles, Cover Art, Crack, Crowley Loves Outer Space (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Footnotes, Gen, Gen Work, Miracles, Not a Crossover, Pre-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Queerplatonic Relationships, Song references, The Arrangement (Good Omens), United States
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperVL/pseuds/PepperVL, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wortlby2/pseuds/Worts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: Miami Florida is the tacky city of Crowley’s dreams, the setting of bothGolden GirlsandMiami Vice. A city so full of sin that claiming even a portion of it would land him in Hell’s less-bad books. It’s Aziraphale’s nightmare, full of loud parties, loud people, and louder fashion. When surprisingly similar missions from Heaven and Hell and a not-at-all-rigged coin toss send the angel to Miami, Crowley can’t think of anything more hilarious than watching Aziraphale fumble his way through Florida culture. Add in another angel, Crowley’s obsession with being cool, a space telescope, a chance encounter with Vanilla Ice, and an alligator, and it’s a disaster waiting to happen.Or a hip-hop song with a “borrowed” opening baseline waiting to become weirdly popular, anyway.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25
Collections: Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang





	Miami Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AughtPunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AughtPunk/gifts).



> AughtPunk has been having a rough go of it lately, so some of us on the GOBB server decided to help cheer them up by co-writing a prompt they made: _Aziraphale and Crowley got into a big fight in the 80s (not as big as The Fight but still nasty) and let's just say there's a reason why Ice Ice Baby has the opening notes to Under Pressure (Aziraphale's ultimate revenge)_. This isn’t quite that, but it’s close, and we hope it makes them feel a little bit better.

Gabriel slapped a file on the desk between them.

"Ah." Aziraphale shifted guiltily in his seat. "Yes. That. Of course."

Gabriel smiled with all his managerial ‘I'm not mad, just very, very disappointed and also I might fire you’ charm. "Aziraphale, I really, really hope—for your sake—that there is a good explanation for"—He stabbed one finger at the file&mdash" _this_."

Aziraphale swallowed. "Oh, naturally." He said airily. "There is an explanation. A frankly fantastic explanation, which makes perfect sense, and I'm sure you've not even considered."

Gabriel arched one eyebrow. "Which is?"

"Er." Aziraphale had not thought that far. "You see, it all started one evening in 1989…"

* * *

Crowley flopped down onto his couch and immediately regretted it. It was not a couch for flopping, an unfortunate fact given that after a thoroughly exasperating business trip to Belgrade, his exhausted corporation was really in need of a good flop. He tossed the thick buildup of mail onto the coffee table with a scowl of irritation. 

Well, he thought as he began thumbing open envelopes, maybe he ought to ring Aziraphale. It had been some time since he’d seen the angel, but as he recalled, there was a very respectable couch for flopping, lounging, and general insouciant malingering in the backroom of his bookshop, not to mention the prospect of a finger or ten of expensive single malt if a demon played his cards right. The prospect was very nearly cheering him up before his fingertips brushed against a familiar packet of folded vellum.[1] The demon pulled it free with a groan. There was the seal indicating official orders from The Department of Troubles and Temptations, which stubbornly refused to become a sweepstakes offer from Reader’s Digest no matter how hard he glowered at it. It was hard to say if this would really be less vexing. Still, better a parchment than Hastur's voice emanating from _The Golden Girls_ or _Miami Vice_.

The seal dissolved in a melodramatic burst of flame and he read the contents with glum resignation. It wasn’t the worst assignment, although he’d hoped after his recent overseas excursion and the opening of the M25 he’d earned himself a little R&R. Ugh. Who was he kidding? He worked for Hell, and the worst part of a bad job well done was that they just wanted you to do it again. And again. And again and again and aga–

He tapped the parchment lightly. A notion was forming in his ancient mind, well on its way to thoughthood, and potentially containing the beginnings of a scheme. It was uncanny sometimes, the way Heaven’s planning department ran parallel to Hell’s…

Crowley smiled like a snake.[2] It was time to pay his favorite angel a visit. 

* * *

The shop bell at A.Z. Fell and Co rang with a cheerful jingle that was at odds with the mood of the proprietor. Aziraphale glared at it as he locked up. Smiting wasn’t much in vogue these days, and it was probably beneath an Angel of the Lord to reduce an object he had installed himself to slag, but he was sorely tempted. Resisting temptation came with the job, and he was unfortunately rather good at it, so long as cream cake wasn’t involved. 

The angel had just about decided it was time for a quiet night of translating _Pascon agan Arluth_[3] from the Cornish to cheer himself up. The ‘80s had been a generally rubbish decade thus far in his opinion, and today not only had he met a customer determined enough to wrest one of his precious books from his collection, but an official memo from heaven had arrived indicating that he was to do the Lord’s (well, Gabriel’s) Work abroad. 

* * *

"Oh yes, I hope you appreciated the assignment. Nothing like a bit of travel, hm?"

"Why, yes, Gabriel." Aziraphale smiled placidly. " _Naturally,_ I am happy to go wherever the Almighty requires me to be."

* * *

Aziraphale shuddered. ‘Abroad’ was for heathens, and not proper gentleman-shaped beings at all. Maybe, if he did his best to pretend he'd overlooked the memo, he could still wiggle out of it…?

He read the instructions through again, and threw the card on the table with a scoff. Oh no, that would _not_ do at all, how ghastly.

He was still scowling at the memo when the abysmal jingle jangled again. 

”We’re closed!” Aziraphale called, irritated that he’d somehow forgotten to lock the door properly. 

“Aaaaaaaangel!”

The beginnings of a good mood made a wary showing. His Infernal counterpart, nemesis, and jolly good drinking buddy might at least lend a sympathetic ear for a work related tittle-tattle —or, as Crowley called it, a ‘bitch session.’

* * *

"So the demon Crowley appeared on your doorstep?" Gabriel interrupted dubiously. "Does that happen often?"

"Oh, Heavens no!" Aziraphale said quickly. "And even if it does, I naturally turn him away immediately."

Gabriel nodded approvingly. "As you should."

"Yes, yes, as I should." Aziraphale confirmed towards a point just left of Gabriel's shoulder, reddening ever so slightly. "I certainly wouldn't dream of inviting him in, o-or anything of the like."

* * *

“Crowley!" Aziraphale beamed. "Come in, come in, but lock that bloody door will you?”

The demon sauntered in as though he owned the place, and plopped down on the couch with a satisfied grunt that bordered on the obscene in the angel’s opinion. “How’s it hanging, Aziraphale?”

“How’s what hanging?”

Crowley snorted. “Nevermind. How’ve you been? And more important, what’s the state of your bar? Got a dram for a poor lost soul?” 

Aziraphale was already retrieving the glasses. “I’m afraid you’ve found me in a bit of a state, dear boy, but there’s no help for it.”

"And why's that, then?"

* * *

"Commendable, Aziraphale." Gabriel admitted just a hint grudgingly, as if he couldn't believe any part of Aziraphale was worth commending. "Who knows what the demon might've seen, had you invited him in."

"Oh no, no, absolutely not!" Aziraphale defended himself. "He never would've seen any official correspondence, I keep them very safe and, er, far away from prying demon eyes!"

"… I didn't mention official correspondence?"

"D-didn't you? Well, in any case, he wouldn't have seen them."

* * *

Aziraphale swiped the memo from his desk and crossed the room to hand it to his old friend. It was typical tasteless Heaven garbage, finest white paper and so much gilt even a Catholic would have found it excessive. Crowley read it with a feeling of smug satisfaction and dropped it on the floor, where it landed with a heavy _clink._

“Florida! Can you believe it Crowley? All the way to Florida for an assignment, as though Zonaquel wasn’t working out of Chicago!” The angel wailed.

“ _Is_ she now?”

“You did _not_ hear that from me.” Aziraphale said as he poured their drinks.

* * *

"I'm glad you're so diligent about secrecy, at least." Gabriel added. "The demons seem to have found out about Zonaquel's latest post, wonder who got loose-lipped this time…"

Aziraphale didn't answer, finding a particularly blank and colorless spot on the Heavenly Wall very interesting all of a sudden.

* * *

“Well, it sounds like this blessing is a matter of some importance and from what I remember, Zonaquel is a bit of an idiot. And you _did_ hear that from me.”

“Now, now, Crowley…” the angel admonished. 

“Well, she is. I ran rings around her in Boston during the Revolution if you recall. Your superiors may be wankers but they know quality work when they see it.” Crowley said, smiling. It never hurt to butter the angel up a bit. 

Predictably, Aziraphale drew himself up with a happy little wiggle. He smiled as he handed the demon his drink, and pulled his chair closer to the couch. “Well, in any case it would be lovely to catch up over brunch tomorrow but I’m afraid they want me to head out post-haste so I’ll need to spend the day arranging things.” 

“What if I told you I also had orders to head to Florida?” the demon said, producing the accursed memo with a flourish. “In fact, if I read that gold foil monstrosity of yours right, it sounds like my orders are much the same as yours.”

“My dear boy, that is simply preposterous! Surely you're mistaken–”

“Read it and weep, friend.” said Crowley as he proffered his orders. The angel took them, grimacing as the unholy parchment burned his fingers a bit, and began to skim their contents. Crowley tried not to spill any of the very excellent whisky he was sipping by laughing. The angel's face was a tableau, nay, a virtual _diorama_ of comedy. 

“There must be some mistake,” the angel said as his face continued through its rapid fire Robin Williams routine. “Why would _both_ our offices want to stop this… space telescope? What is that anyway? Sounds like some ludicrous contraption from a ghastly science fiction weekly.”[4]

“Not a blessed clue. I imagine it involves the humans getting uppity and you know no one’s in favor of _that._ Anyway, no reason for both of us to go, so what do you say to a coin toss?”

Hope bloomed on the angel’s face. “Oh, but wouldn’t you like Florida? I’m sure there’s something I could cover for you here in exchange. I hear it’s quite warm there.” 

“It’s also full of Americans.” 

Aziraphale, being rather Britannically inclined, could hardly argue with that sentiment.

"Right then." He sighed, before reaching out towards Crowley's face. "Oh, I say, what's this behind–"

Crowley caught Aziraphale's hand in a practised movement and plucked the coin from his sleeve, as unappreciative of Aziraphale's fabulous tricks as ever.

"Spoilsport," Aziraphale grumbled.

"Heads or tails?" Crowley grinned, entirely unfazed.

“Heads, then.” Aziraphale pouted.[5]

With a grin that showed far more teeth than was natural, Crowley flipped the coin into the air and captured it on the back of his hand with a slap. Before he drew his hand away to reveal the result, Crowley was sure of two things: the coin would be showing tails,[6] and there was little he wanted more than to follow Aziraphale to Florida and watch the hapless angel try to fit in.

Aziraphale huffed as he eyed the coin on the back of Crowley’s hand. Tails, of course. “Oh, very well then. I’ll go to America.” He handed Crowley back his instructions. “I’ll book passage in the morning.”

“ _Book passage_?” Crowley gave Aziraphale a skeptical look over his sunglasses. “You’re not taking a _boat_ , are you?”

“Of course not!” Aziraphale managed to assume an insulted air for at least four seconds. It was practically a record for him, excepting that six-second stint of huffiness in the 3rd century AD. “I will take an aeroplane to Florida. I’ll phone my travel agent in the morning.”

“You could just fly there.”

“I could be seen!” Aziraphale wiggled nervously, his hands clasped in front of him. “I don’t want to get a rude note from Michael—or worse, Gabriel—about proper behaviour!"

“That’s the fun, angel.” Crowley smirked.

* * *

“You had a human book your transportation to Florida?” Gabriel asked, sounding as though he thought Aziraphale was mad for even considering it. 

“Should I not have?” Aziraphale wrung his hands together nervously. “I thought, well, for the sake of blending in. The humans all use their travel agents and I thought it best if I did too.”

“But then you had to take the human transportation.”

“Well, the Almighty hasn’t smote an aeroplane out of the sky yet, so I figured they were allowed?” 

“For the humans, yes. But they’re entirely unnecessary for you. Commendable, but unnecessary. You could have used a miracle.”

Aziraphale just smiled blandly, trying his best to look pleased that Gabriel thought his actions commendable, and not like he was currently missing his flaming sword something fierce.

* * *

After a few hours of attempting to convince Aziraphale that an increasingly ludicrous array of Hawaiian patterned shirts and pastel blazers were all the rage in America these days,[7] the demon excused himself and drove home to pack a few necessities himself. It would be a few days before Aziraphale embarked, but there was no time like the present, and Crowley was warming up to the idea of all the mischief he could get up to now that he’d considered the possibilities. Despite his protestations, Crowley was rather fond of Americans. They did so much of his work for him. 

When we speak of a demon flying, we are not speaking of the physical flying of a bird or bumblebee, of course. Occult beings are beyond such petty concerns as ‘aerodynamics’ or ‘sound barriers’—though they _did_ get cramps in the shoulder-equivalent of their True Forms if they flew faster than the speed of light without warm-up first.

These days there were a lot of humans about, and bad things tended to happen to them if you ruffled the spacetime continuinuinuum too much, and The Powers That Be weren’t too keen on their agents being spotted; so Crowley didn’t get the opportunity to fly as often as he used to, and he savored it a bit.

Gliding in lazy circles around the Bermuda Triangle, he let his wings leave the aether just enough to feel Earth’s air caress his feathers. He made sure to be spotted by the odd fishing boat, and an expedition of phenomenologists as well, who made the _most_ satisfying delighted gasping noises.

Eventually, after only a minor mishap with an overzealous seagull he was not thinking about now or _ever_ ,[8] Crowley landed gracefully in a stifling Miami alley. He allowed himself the pleasure of snaking his tongue out between his teeth for a moment. The air tasted of cocaine, suntan oil, and sweet, sweet vice. The demon hugged himself with glee. This was going to be _fun_.

* * *

Four days later, Aziraphale tried to maintain his chipper attitude as he disembarked in Miami, but between the crabby child and the woman who had some _unacceptable_ opinions on _Being Earnest_ who had sat behind and next to him respectively on the flight over, as well as the air that felt like having a wet towel over his face, he was finding it a bit difficult.

He was frowning at one of the garishly patterned shirts Crowley had conjured for him and contemplating hailing a taxi when he heard a depressingly familiar voice. 

“Hey, Zira! There you are! They told me you’d be here soon.” 

“Um… errr, Zonaquel… I ah, wasn’t informed you would be working with me…”

“Yup, and it’s Zona, if we’re gonna be working with the mortals.”

“I go by Mr. Fell.”

* * *

"And?" Gabriel smiled in that way he had where it seemed like his face was merely bored and needed something to do. "How did you and Zonaquel get along?"

"Oh, _wonderfully._ " Aziraphale enthused, unenthusiastically. "Fast friends, she and I. Instant connection. We _are_ both members of the Heavenly Host, after all. It ties Celestials together, doesn't it?"

* * *

She snorted derisively, “That might fly in,” and here she adopted a faux-British accent that made Aziraphale do a rapid cost benefit analysis of the merits of murder vs. the pain of joining the Fallen,[9] “jolly old England, wot! But here in the States you can’t be so formal!” 

Aziraphale sighed. He was probably going to need to talk to a priest[10] before this was over. “Azra, then.” 

Zonaquel clapped him on the back in an altogether too rough and familiar kind of way. _Americans._ “Excellent! I think we’re going to make a great team!”

Oh dear. This was not tickety boo. This was not tickety boo _at all_. 

* * *

[1] We advise the reader against speculating what manner of animal skin is used in official missives from Hell. [Return to text]

[2] Not that he had many alternatives in this regard. [Return to text]

[3] The oldest known complete literary work in Cornish. The title translates as “The Passion of Our Lord” and the poem deals with the last days of Jesus Christ, starting with the temptation in the wilderness. If Crowley ever bothered to read it, he’d comment how the author only got one part of the temptation right and refuse to say which part. [Return to text]

[4] Aziraphale had greatly enjoyed H.G.Wells; so much so, in fact, that he declared any other foray into the genre absolute drivel, and would not read it under pain of death. 

… well. Unpleasant discorporation, at the very least. [Return to text]

[5] Aziraphale was nothing if not predictable, he always chose heads. Sometimes Crowley wished he would switch it up a little, if only to keep him on his toes. [Return to text]

[6] If it knew what was good for it, anyway. [Return to text]

[7] With a certain amount of success, since the morose angel was drinking more heavily than his counterpart. [Return to text]

[8] It was the seagull’s fault, the way it had just flown there in front of him, practically begging for a snake to eat it. Crowley absolutely had not forgotten about his lack of wings in his snake form when he’d shifted to swallow it. [Return to text]

[9] The balance was shifting steadily in favour of angel slaughter the more fake-posh her accent attempted to get—and really, being on the same side as Crowley, that wouldn't be so bad, would it? [Return to text]

[10] Or a witch. Aziraphale found that, when it came to easing one’s troubled soul, they provided equally useful service, and made better tea. [Return to text]


End file.
